


It's The End of Today

by Jheselbraum



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, PTSD, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 04:13:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11798142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jheselbraum/pseuds/Jheselbraum
Summary: In the wake of the apocalypse, Stan has some things to say.Another work for mathes0n cross-posted from tumblr, written about a year ago.





	It's The End of Today

“I’m sorry.”

Ford had to swallow the lump of panic that rose in his throat at the sudden noise, forcing himself to register that it was only Stanley behind him, not Bill, not a monster, just Stanley shuffling his feet in the doorway, clearly nervous, arms folded across his chest in an attempt to hide that fact. Ford took a deep breath, allowing himself to sink further into the couch and taking in the view of the forest from the porch.

“I really screwed you over,” Stan said, moving to sit next to his brother. He held out a can of Pitt Cola as a peace offering.

“When?” Ford asked, taking the soda can. He didn’t mean for it to come out as harshly as it did, as harshly as it seemed to reflect in Stan’s eyes for a split second. He still hadn’t recovered all of his memories, still hadn’t re-learned to hide his emotions when needed.

Stan did remember what apologies had gotten him in the past, though: a big fat load of nothing, that’s what. Apologizing to his father, to his teachers, to Carla, to Rico and Jorge had always been futile.

But this time, this time he knew that he really,  _really_ needed to apologize, if the memories he  _had_ regained were any indication, had any root in reality beyond a distant nightmare that had finally and abruptly ended four days prior.

“Fuck, I don’t even really know. There’s a lot jumbled up memories rattling around up here, ya know?” Stan said, rapping his knuckles against his forehead, grinning. “…I think I remember some fancy pants college. Somethin’ about a portal, too. I think I pushed you in. But mostly I remember the apocalypse,” Stan said. “I didn’t wanna save you, but… Dipper and I were talkin’ about it and I should have. I really,  _really_ should have.” He reached into his suit pocket, pulling out a carefully folded piece of paper, and handed it to Ford. 

Ford didn’t have to open it all the way to know what it was: a copy of a page from his journal, from the third journal, and of course, of  _course,_ it had to be the page about  _Bill,_ splattered in blood on the original but ink on the photocopy and covered in past failings. His free hand flew to the bandages on his wrist, itching to take them off, feeling like they were made of an otherworldly metal instead of gauze. Ford bit his tongue, having to fight not to say anything, to just stay calm, to remind himself that  _Bill is gone, he can’t hurt anyone ever again, I’ll never have to deal with him again._

“Stan–”

“Sorry.” Stan took the crumpled page from Ford’s hand, shoving it back in his pocket. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I just thought that, I dunno, after what he did to you, after what he almost did to the kids…” Stan sighed. “Dipper wouldn’t tell me anything specific but he did make me take another look at the journal page. Something tells me there was something about you and Bill that I missed, and I’m sorry.”

Ford’s breath hitched, he was still absentmindedly tugging at the bandages on his wrists, the one wrapped around his neck felt like it was growing tighter by the minute.

“You don’t have to say anything, I just…” Stan sighed, pouring through what memories he had regained, trying to think of what to do in this situation, when his brother was getting caught up in his own head and tearing himself apart over it. “You didn’t deserve what he did to you, and you didn’t deserve what I did to you, and you didn’t deserve what I said–”

“Stanley, you  _saved me_ ,” Ford said, turning to face his brother, the golden purple hues of twilight inching towards the porch, towards the two of them. “You saved me, you saved the world, you don’t need to apologize.”

Stan chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, actually, I do.” He said, gently putting an arm around Ford’s shoulder. “I guess I  _did_ do all of those things but I still needed to apologize. ’Cause you  _do_  deserve a brother that’s willing to own up to shit like that when it happens instead of ignoring it and lettin’ you get this bad again.” Stan said, gesturing to the copy of the journal page. “I read through some of the other pages, too. Some of the things you said about yourself…” Stan heaved a sigh. “You gotta trust the people who care about you, Poindexter. And you can’t do that if we don’t give you a reason to– if  _I_ don’t give you a reason to. So yeah, I’m apologizing for the stuff I said during Weirdmaggedon. And don’t think you can let me get away with anything else: I get the feeling that I’m only gonna remember more shit as time goes on.” Stan said.

 Ford leaned forward, wrapping Stan in a hug, the two of them standing proud against the encroaching twilight. “You better remember everything eventually.” He muttered. “I don’t want to lose you a second time.”

“Hey now,” Stan said, returning the hug full force. “You’ll have to use something a lot stronger than some kinda memory gun to get rid of me.”

Ford laughed at that despite himself, smiling softly as fireflies began their nightly routine. “It’s alright. About the apocalypse– About Bill. You didn’t know.” He said, softly, refusing to let go of Stan, choosing to stay in the hug as long as possible. “And the other stuff– when you do remember it. That’s alright, too.”

“M’still gonna apologize for it,” Stan said, stubbornly clinging to his brother as well.

“Most of that was decades ago, Stan.”

“Doesn’t matter, now that I know you don’t want me to, not apologizing at this point would be basically admitting defeat,” Stan huffed.

“Just promise me one thing, Stanley?” Ford asked, quietly, his face solemn. Twelve fingers dug into the fabric of Stan’s suit, stopping only when a few fireflies landed on them.

“Yeah, Poindexter?”

“…Promise me you won’t blame yourself.” Ford’s voice was barely a whisper above the chirping of crickets, the clicking sounds the monsters made just beyond the line of trees, deep within the forest.

“Ford…” Stan hugged his brother tighter, protecting the injured man he’d come to know in the past few days, remembered to love in the past few days. The man who’d spent the past few days rebinding Dipper’s damaged books in between cooking meals and helping Stan with his own childhood memories. The man who ‘helped’ Mabel bake cupcakes in the kitchen and only wound up destroying the kitchen twice as much: the two of them working together did more damage than either of them could achieve on their own, it seemed. 

The man who hadn’t bothered trying to salvage the broken glass from the windows of the Mystery Shack, instead crushing it further beneath his boots. The man who would sometimes look at Stan with a painful twinge of regret in his eyes. The man who would freeze in  _fear_ of him at times, at a wrong look, at an old tune he almost remembered from a movie, at a nickname he’d proudly announced came from their childhood in New Jersey. Fear was a look in Ford’s eyes that made something in Stanley’s gut curdle.

The man who would sit with him on the porch, having a heart to heart.

The man he was slowly rekindling a brotherhood with.

Things weren’t perfect between them, not yet, but damn it all if they weren’t willing to  _try_ now.

And damn if they weren’t going to  _fix things,_ once and for all.


End file.
